The deep, still trout-pools of the Merced--bravest and strongest river of
the valley--were coloured like beds of purple pansies; or they were vivid
green, glinting with sparks of gold, like the wings of a Brazilian beetle.
Far down in the clear depths, Angela caught glimpses of darting fish,
swift as silver arrows shot from an unseen bow. And close to the sky, high
on the rocky sides of the Yosemite treasure-chest, were curiously traced
bas-reliefs, which might have been carved by a dead race of giants: heads
of elephants, profiles of Indians and Titanic tortoises, most of them
appropriately and whimsically named by ancient pioneers.
"The Yosemite!" Angela said, over and over to herself. "I'm in the
Yosemite Valley!"
Once, in the heart of a forest, a deer sprang out on to the road and stood
alert, quivering, as the stage lumbered heavily toward it through
sparkling red dust like powdered rubies. Then, suddenly, when the horses
were almost upon it, the delicate creature bounded away, vanishing among
the shadows which seemed to have given it birth, as a diving fish is
swallowed up by water and lost to sight. This vision lingered in Angela's
memory as one of the loveliest of the day; but the great cataracts did
their startling best, later, to paint out the earlier pictures.
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